


alright, come close

by Fethermage



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Marijuana
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-08
Updated: 2017-12-08
Packaged: 2019-02-11 23:39:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12946524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fethermage/pseuds/Fethermage
Summary: The first time he sees him it's an accident—Maxson had got turned around looking for an old record store and ended up in an alleyway and there he was, all red hair and brown freckled skin and, well.He startles and quickly drops the joint he's holding to grind it out with his heel. Maxson can see a name tag with the logo of the store he'd been looking for, and it occurs to him that he's just caught an employee decidedly not doing his job.





	alright, come close

**Author's Note:**

> Record store au! Inspired by an idea my partner had.

The first time he sees him it's an accident—Maxson had got turned around looking for an old record store and ended up in an alleyway and there he was, all red hair and brown freckled skin and, well.

He startles and quickly drops the joint he's holding to grind it out with his heel. Maxson can see a name tag with the logo of the store he'd been looking for, and it occurs to him that he's just caught an employee decidedly not doing his job.

Maxson frowns.

"I'm looking for Sanctuary?"

The employee coughs and wipes his hands on his pants. "You found her. You can come inside with me from the back."

Maxson catches the slightest hint of a smile before Sam unlocks the back door and holds it open. He follows, taking in the messy back room and then the dusty old shop. A man is reading a magazine behind the front counter, but aside from him, they're all alone.

"I can smell that from here, Sam," says the man behind the counter, and Sam shrugs sheepishly.

"Slow day. I'm Sam, this is Preston. Can we, ah, find you anything?" Sam gestures to the store, knocking over a stack of old CD cases in the process. After a second of staring at them on the floor, Sam bursts into giggles.

Maxson's not entirely impressed. Getting high on the job is irresponsible no matter how quiet it is. He looks at the pile with disdain, then brushes past Sam to Preston. Behind him, Sam makes a disappointed noise before slowly crouching to fix up the mess he caused. 

"I'm looking for—" and what is he looking for, really? Maxson had just felt a pull to check the old store out after hearing about it from a client. "I'm just browsing."

Preston nods, explains the layout of the store. Maxson wanders off to the classical section to idly flip through old records to see if anything catches his eye.  

The store is warm, both in colour and in temperature. Maxson shrugs off his coat and runs a finger along the back of the bin keeping the records in place—dusty. Old and dusty. Smells a bit like mothballs and—thanks to Sam—pot. Still, he finds he likes it despite himself—it's cozy. Inviting. It reminds him of the soft Spanish accent Sam has in a way.

Clearing his throat from that thought, Maxson looks up to catch Sam eyeing him appreciatively. They both quickly look away, and yeah, this is too much right now. Grabbing the first record he sees, Maxson heads to the front counter to pay.

Preston rings him through and points at Sam. "Sorry about him. He's dealing with... some things."

"I'm not going to report him," Maxson says, though he's not sure why.

Preston smiles his thanks and hands Maxson his record.

He doesn't even own a record player.

 

**

 

The second time he sees Sam it's a coincidence. It's 8 in the morning, and Maxson is in line for a smoothie at the juice shop near his gym post-workout. When Sam wanders in, Maxson does a double-take, then faces forwards, scowling.

He's not actually mad at Sam. He's not even annoyed. Rather, Maxson finds he's almost fond—he's been replaying the look Sam gave him with his coat off for days. And that's frustrating, so Maxson isn't dealing with it.

A tap on his shoulder says Sam feels otherwise.

"Hey," Sam says, and Maxson turns to see a grin that makes his stomach flip. "You live around here?"

"Yes," Maxson says, glancing up and down Sam. "Do you?" 

"Not at all." 

Sam doesn't elaborate. 

He does grab Maxson's smoothie as an apology for the other day, though. 

 

**

 

The third time happens because Maxson seeks him out, and he wishes it could be as simple as magically picking the exact day that Sam works next, but he has to swing by three times before Maxson catches him.

“If I didn’t know any better, I would say you’re trying to bump into me,” Sam says when he walks in, and Maxson scowls.

“You work here,” Maxson says, refusing to admit Sam is right. “I need a record player.” 

“You bought a record you couldn’t play?” 

“I can leave.”

“No,” Sam laughs. “Here, I’ll get you—they’re up the stairs.”

Sam leads Maxson over, and then gestures for him to go first. At the top of the stairs, Maxson turns around to see Sam slowly making his way up. He catches Sam’s eye, and Sam clears his throat. “Prosthetic leg. Stairs. Almost there.”

Maxson finds he wants to know everything about Sam, including how he lost his leg. Ridiculous—crushes never end well. He has too much to do. Sam's just a stoner with a cute face.

"Know anything about record players?"

Sam scoffs at the question. "I work here."

"Doesn't answer my question."

"Hm. Well, these are all secondhand, so it doesn't matter much anyway. Best test would be for us to pick one and play something on it."

Maxson gets the impression Sam does nearly everything like that—by the seat of his pants, with not much forethought or afterthought. It seems stressful. "Well, you're not going back down there. We'll be here all day. I'll go find something." 

"Get something good," Sam says, and Maxson waves a hand. He returns with the first thing he saw—an old classic rock record—and returns to Sam, who immediately judges his taste.

"Pick one," Sam says, and Maxson looks around. There's a small player near them on a table, made of a nice warm wood that matches the store. As he gestures at it, Sam heads over to fiddle with it, and before long the opening notes of the music play. The sound is alright, nothing special, but the player is compact, he supposes, and it's not much money, which is great given he only owns one record—

"Sit," Sam says, and Maxson snaps his head up. Sam has made himself comfortable in the ratty old arm chair in the corner. Beside him is a cot with messy blankets, and he assumes that's where he's meant to sit, so sit he does.

They listen in silence for a while. Maxson feels like it should be awkward, but it's simply... peaceful.

Before he knows it, it's closing time. Preston's voice calling for Sam rouses them both from the half-asleep daze they find themselves in. Sam calls back, tells him to head home for the night, then stretches both hands above his head. The action lifts his shirt enough that Maxson gets a glimpse of his stomach, and he's equal parts interested in what Sam has to show and intrigued by the fact that the scars littering Sam's face and arms extend there, too.

What happened to you, Maxson wonders, but doesn't ask.

"You can come back another day and listen to the others if you're not ready to make a decision."

"Hm? Oh—yes. Thank you." It's an excuse to see Sam as well as be smart with his money. Maxson will take it.

 

**

 

By the tenth time, Maxson has listened to all of the record players, and it’s time to make a real decision.

He doesn’t want to, though. This has been nice. It’s a vacation from himself and his life, up there with the music and Sam. Running the gym has been a lot of stress, especially with the pressure on him to make the damn thing finally profitable. 

Sam comes up the stairs behind him, an album in hand. “I get the impression you’re one of our customers that doesn’t realize newer music comes on vinyl, too. We’re listening to my choice tonight.

Tonight—Maxson glances at his watch. 5:03. The store closed three minutes ago. “I lost track of time. Work. I can come back another—“

“I’ve been late for dates before, it’s fine.”

Dates. Is that what—

“Means I get high while we listen, so you’ve done me a favour,” Sam says with a wink.

“You didn’t seem to have a problem with getting high on the clock when I first met you,” Maxson points out as he takes a seat in Sam’s chair. It’s comfy, and Maxson can see why Sam likes it.

“Do you have a problem with it?”

Yes. “No.” 

It strikes him that it’s not a lie. For the short few weeks Maxson has known Sam he’s existed in a world unlike Maxson’s. Perhaps pot is part of that world. He has his own vices. It’d be different if Sam was one of his trainers, he thinks, but he’s… not. He’s Sam.

“Want some, then?”

“I’ve never…”

The music starts, and Sam turns around to give him a delighted look. “I’ve been hoping to show—anyway. Stand up, my stash is under the cushion.”

“You keep your stash in the store?”

Sam doesn’t answer right away. Once he’s replaced the cushion and sat on the cot, he shrugs. “Preston doesn’t mind as long as I stay sober on the clock. The other week was an anomaly.

That’s—huh. Maxson hadn’t clued in to the fact that Preston owns the place.

“Hm. Follow-up question: why does Preston keep a cot in his store?”

Once again, Sam doesn’t answer right away. He’s busy preparing them a joint, something Maxson watches with idle curiosity. When he wants a hit of his preferred poison, he needs only pour the whiskey into a glass. Sam’s hands are elegant and precise as he works, even with the two missing fingers on his left hand.

After lighting it and taking a hit, Sam hands the joint to Maxson, who takes it and then—is at a loss as to how, exactly, one smokes marijuana. He’s guessing it’s less like his cigars and more like a cigarette, so that’s what he tries, inhaling the smoke.

He’s not expecting the coughing fit as he hands it back to Sam, who is laughing at him. “Don’t you smoke?”

“Cigars. You don’t inhale them.”

“Should have prepared some edibles.”

“Have you been planning to ask me to get high?”

Sam winks at him.

It takes only a few passes before Maxson starts to feel it. Everything gets heavy and far away and he’s hungry as hell and Sam looks amazing, wreathed in smoke as the strains of a soothing song hit his ears.

“It’s my cot,” Sam says, and it takes Maxson a few minutes to remember what they were talking about.

“You live in the store?”

“No—“ Sam laughs and coughs and hands Maxson what’s left of the joint. “No, I just sleep here when I can’t bring myself to go out there.”

Maxson doesn’t press that, because he gets it, because he’s fallen asleep at his desk at the gym before and that’s not the same as staying because it’s too hard to leave but maybe it is, maybe he understands Sam. Maybe he’s high. Both. 

He wants to kiss Sam, but making a move when high is a bad idea.

 

**

 

Maxson stops counting how many times he’s seen Sam when they make their music dates weekly. More often than not they get high, which means more often than not Maxson thinks about making a move, but never does.

 

**

 

There’s snow on the ground and a chill in the air when Maxson lets himself into Sanctuary’s back door. He locks it behind him, stomps his boots clean, then calls out for Sam.

“Yeah?”

“I’m picking this week,” Maxson says, and while Sam’s faith in his musical tastes hasn’t improved, he still gives Maxson the okay. It’s an old Christmas album that Maxson presses into Sam’s hand at the top of the stairs, and Sam rolls his eyes, but he takes the record.

“This was a mistake,” Sam says, and Maxson takes his seat in Sam’s chair.

“You will put that on and enjoy it,” Maxson mock-commands, and Sam laughs at him but does as he says.

When Sam turns around, he asks Maxson to stand for his stash, but Maxson shakes his head. “Can we—not tonight?”

“Of course,” Sam says, taking his seat on the cot.

Maxson listens to the opening bells of a Christmas carol play quietly before Sam clears his throat.

“Yes?”

“Why are we listening to Christmas music?”

“It’s December.”

“That it is,” says Sam. He’s shimmying out of his pants so he can remove his prosthetic leg, and Maxson is distracted by the lines of Sam’s thighs for a moment.

“I have to head home to see family for a while. This is to bolster my Christmas spirits.”

A bag of Doritos lands in his lap as Sam chuckles. “I’m your spirit of Christmas present?”

“That’s not how that story works.”

Sam simply crunches a chip at him.

Maxson looks at Sam, and he really looks, because everything about how Sam exists is an affront to Maxson’s upbringing of order and obedience, because Sam simply has the courage to exist on his own terms, and this is the most relaxed he feels, here in the store away from—Sam has caught him staring.

“Do you know how long you’re leaving for?”

“Until the new year,” Maxson says, and Sam visibly relaxes.

“I thought a while might mean longer than that. I’d have missed-this. These. It’s like my weekly therapy now. “

And that startles Maxson, because he’d not considered that Sam might be getting just as much from this as he has been. He wonders what Sam deals with to need this.

They’re kissing before Maxson knows it. He’s moved to lean one knee on Sam’s cot. Sam’s slid one hair into Maxson’s hair. When they pull away, Maxson is panting as Sam grins. “I’ve been wondering when—“

Maxson shuts him up with a kiss.

 

**

 

The fourth time they sleep together, Maxson finally asks about the scars.

“Military,” Sam says. When he sees that it surprises Maxson, he raises an eyebrow. “You thought I looked like this because of a record store accident?”

“I didn’t assume anything.”

Sam closes his eyes and his mouth twists and he sighs and—“It’s not something I like to talk about. It hurt. You see things, you get told to do things, you…”

Maxson shifts Sam to better accommodate both of them on the chair. With a sigh, Sam rests his head on Maxson’s chest and mumbles out a thanks.

He wants to ask something. Or say something. But he’s at a loss for words, because it doesn’t feel like this needs to be a conversation. Sam has demons that he wears in his scars, and like Maxson, the quiet companionship keeps them at bay.

Behind them, the record player crackles.

**Author's Note:**

> The soothing song Maxson mentions is Gooey by Glass Animals.


End file.
